


IKEA

by surrealmeme



Series: Jamilton's IKEA Adventures [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/F, Hamilsquad, High School AU, IKEA, M/M, student council au, trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 16:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8759875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrealmeme/pseuds/surrealmeme
Summary: “Oh? Weren’t you the one that insisted on spending an hour looking at end tables!”“Yeah? You stared at two sets of knives that were basically the same, then spent 45 minutes eating crappy mass-produced food!”Or, the Hamilsquad gets locked in IKEA for the night.





	

            “This is your fault, Jefferson!”

            “Oh? Weren’t you the one that insisted on spending an hour looking at _end tables_!”

            “Yeah? You stared at two sets of knives that were basically the same, _then_ spent 45 minutes eating crappy mass-produced food!”

            A few feet back, the rest of the party watched with exasperated amusement. Just moments before, they had been running down the halls of the IKEA, calling out directions as they furiously checked the map. It was carefree and transient, like the young teenagers they were. They made it just in time to see the tiny outline of the last employee lock the door and leave. And thus, they were stuck at IKEA for the night.

            A grin managed to spread across John Laurens’ face. He dashed off in the direction of the showroom he had been admiring, a small, simple welcoming arrangement of cheap, impossible to assemble, mass produced Swedish furniture. Trading knowing looks, the three Schuyler sisters did the same, taking off in their own directions. Soon, the remaining five followed their examples, leaving the still-arguing Hamilton and Jefferson in the middle of a dark IKEA.

            “The _fuck_?!” Hamilton burst out as he noticed this. “John! Eliza! Laf! Angelica! Herc…” he called out his friends names as he wandered the halls with the illumination of his phone’s flashlight, leaving Jefferson behind without so much as a second glance.

            “This is all because Peggy and Maria decided to fuck on the old, cheap, garage sale student council sofa,” Hamilton muttered under his breath. _So you’re taking it out on your boyfriend instead, Alex?_ he chided himself. _You’ll make him believe that you still unconditionally hate him if you carry on like this._

Sighing and swallowing his pride – sometimes, just _sometimes_ , even Alexander Hamilton knew when he was wrong – Hamilton turned and walked back to where he’d left Jefferson standing.

            “Jefferson?” he started and eventually switched to “Thomas?” rather nervously. “Where the hell are you.

            _Dammit, what if he just went off,_ Hamilton thought. _I honestly don’t want him to hate me again, that pompous little fucker._

Grumbling at the lengths Thomas Jefferson was making him go to, Hamilton pulled his phone out of his pocket. _At least it’s not my car that’s probably gonna get towed._ Oh, right _– I don’t have one,_ Hamilton thought. His eyes, adjusting to the brightness of the screen and darkness of the IKEA, were trying to focus on the contact list. Other people put their significant other’s in under some cutesy name, probably followed by the double heart emoji; in Alexander Hamilton’s phone, his boyfriend was simply listed as _“Thomas Jefferson,”_ Nothing more, nothing less.

            _Still,_ Hamilton thought. _It’s better than –_

            “Well, it’s better than “Arrogant, Egotistic, Francophile, That Little Fucker,” I guess,” a voice suddenly said behind Hamilton.

            He jumped, made an undignified noise that he would later fervently deny, and screamed,

            _“What in the ever-loving fuck?!”_

“ _Mm_ , could’ve done better,” the same voice declared. “Uncreative.”

            “Oh my God, Jefferson,” Hamilton said, a rant coming on, “to think that I went back for you, that I was about to fucking _call_ you – and here you were, _stalking me_ ; you even took off your preposterous, heeled, blindingly shiny oxford-boot hybrids for it!”

            “Of course, it was bound to be hilarious, how could I have possibly risked jeopardizing it?”

            _“Thomas fucking Jefferson,”_ Hamilton began to threaten, but Jefferson interrupted once again.

            “No, I think I’m fucking you, not one of my own relatives.”

          “You’re never moving the student council room into the south wing now, Jefferson,” Hamilton stonily said, making no comment on Jefferson’s most recent statement.

            “Oh, so you don’t deny the fact that I’m fucking you? Have you no shame?” Jefferson said, quirking an eyebrow. “Anyway, you can kiss your debt plan goodbye, then.”

            Hamilton fumed, angry at both Jefferson’s insufferable comments and the fact that Hamilton now couldn’t just go straight to punching Jefferson in the face anymore – he had to resolve the issue like a civilized adult now, according to Professor Washington.

            “ _Hmm,_ but I don’t really want to kiss my debt plan, _Thomas_ ,” Hamilton started. “Maybe you instead – I’m sure that’ll make me more inclined to give you the council room. Of course, I’ll be expecting something in return, something like my debt plan or _maybe_ … something _else_ ,” Hamilton finished, the tone and direction of his words grown much more suggestive than he had planned. He was pleased, thought, at rendering Jefferson speechless.

            “That seems a sufficient trade,” Jefferson finally replied. “I passed by a nice bedroom showroom, if you desire to _further negotiate_ ,” Jefferson suggested, his hair tickling the top of the shell of Hamilton’s ear as he walked.

            “There is no fucking way I am doing _anything_ with you in a _fucking IKEA display room_ ,” Hamilton declared, ruining the mood.

            “Fine, I do have much nicer things over in my house.”

+++

**Extra:**

            “Pay up,” Hercules demanded with no room for leniency. “Twenty dollars, each of you – I told you they were screwing each other.”


End file.
